Tales from the Black Rose
by Ar-Kaos
Summary: Not a Ranma fic. This is a love story set in the world of Warhammer Fantasy. The Son of a Marcher lord is exiled to school, there to find purpose, friendship and ..love?
1. Chapter 1

**From the Annals of the Fellowship of the Black Rose**

**How the Marquis won his March**

**Or**

**A Tale Of Two Blades.**

**Prologue**

"Fuckin people" Ben swore. He was stood in the square of scholars in front of the Grand Imperial Academy of Nuln and Stirland. He was also thoroughly pissed off. Ever since he had first heard of this daft idea to send him to college he had known it was a plot by his Father's wife. Unfortunatley he had been in so much of a temper over the whole thing that rather than argue the toss he had packed up and left. Wishing them all the best in his own very best ironical voice.

His father, Marquis Cromwell of the Vaastmark was one of the most powerful people in service to the Elector of Ostermark. A man who had fought his way through winter war and uncounted warriors to win the largest March in the country. He had been the first knight of the land, a man nobody would cross out of fear and respect. But that had all changed. Ben's father married for politics, and he married the daughter of his neighbour, a marcher lord like himslef. The marriage had been fruitful if unhappy. Ben had grown up as far from the house as he could manage, away for months at a time serving with the Marquis's orc hunting bands. Like his parents he was stubborn and prideful. Unlike them he had this beaten out of him by his 'tutors', the various sheriffs who oversaw his 'education' and the orcs that he fought.

It had been a hard life but one the boy was well suited to. That had all changed with the death of his mother. The stories were that she had died out of spite, rather than provide her husband with another heir she had willed herself to death. Whatever the reason it meant little to Ben's fatehr, until that is he met Abomove. Lady Abomove was a delicate flower, a westerner more used to silk than sabres and palaces to palisades. She had captured Marquis Cromwell's heart in a stampede of lace. It was then that things changed.

Lady Abomove had no use for the plain fare of the household, immediately importing a chef. She hated being woken early, so the marquis' morning training was cancelled. But most of all she hated Ben. He was the biggest thorn in her side that she could ever imagine. He argued with her in front of her husband, belittled her, and scorned her attempts to civilise him. He was wild and blunt. Even so all this she could have forgiven if the boy had just gone and done what his brothers had done, that is get themselves killed in these foolish skirmishes with the orcs. But he didn't and so she hated him.

You see Lady Cromwell, nee Abomove wanted one thing, and that was a dukedom. She wanted strawberry leaves above her mantel and she wanted them now. Her new husband, pliable as he was, was a step in the right direction. But she needed more, and that meant advancement. That in turn required an heir she could sculpt. Not just any heir though, her heir. The young Ben just would not do. So she got rid of him by sending him to the very place he would least fit in, The Aristocratic haven of the Grand Imperial Academy.

"Fuckin' people" Ben repeated in his thick accented Osterspiel. He had never seen as many people outside a warhost, and even then maybe not. And they were all being pointless, chatting, flapping and warbbleing like painted pigeons. He shoved his way through with traditional severity, only to find the popinjays actually trying to reprimand him. Admittedly one glare later they were all deciding not to bother him further but it was still astounding that such wet blankets would dare to raise their voice to a man.

It was little wonder they were scared however, at this moment Ben Cromwell looked very dangerous indeed. Despite his young age he was already pushing six feet, and built large with it. His chain Hauberk was plain and obviously functional, as were the heavy sword and broad knife that were belted at his waist. His short dark hair was cut, rather than in the latest fashion, as short as he could manage and his face already bore a collection of small scars. His face, even without the scowl, was hardly handsome, his jaw perhaps a little too square, his bone structure perhaps a little too clear, but when combined with his dark eyes and wild ruggedness it did hold more than a little charm. If his build was a little on the heavy side it could easily be put down to bloodline. Nobody this generation had accused the Cromwells of having 'mixed' blood, but it wasn't so long ago that such accusations were more commonplace. Ben's father fixed that with the sharp end of a broadsword.

"Fuck it" he cursed, forcing himself to step into the porch of the academy. "Ain't like I've got anywhere else to go."

And on such auspicious beghinnings began one of the greatest love stories the empire will ever know.

o

o

o

**Chapter One**

" And if you ever so much as breathe my name again I'll tear out your heart and squash it beneath my heel!" Ben threatened, his voice barely above a whisper. The target of his ire had no trouble hearing however, being as how the young heir had all of his attention. A feat he had achieved by lifting the boy off his feet by the lacy frills of his shirt and firmly planting him into the wall. The simple fact that he had decked two of the other boy's friends on the way to him sort of helped as well. "Now do you understand me, puke?" Ben demanded in his still heavily accented Reik. The 'puke' in question nodded as fast as he could, anything to make the nutter barbarian put him down.

From behind came a brief clap. Ben whirled, discarding the young noble as he went. In front of him he found a black clad man of middle years. His face was adorned with a stylish goatee and his waist with a very servicable looking rapier.

"Well done young man" the black clad guy added, "I particularly admired the finish."

"What are you talking about?" Ben demanded.

"You have an obvious eye for combat, and some significant skill in its pursuance," the man continued as if Ben hadn't been rude. "You may go far."  
"What?" Ben said, unused to anything so much as resembling a compliment from these city-folk.

"Of course here in the city its more normal to challenge the man rather than make him loose bodily control, but your way works too," the stranger commented, with a smile.

"Okay who are you" Ben Demanded, his temper flaring.

"My name is DeVir, Jacques DeVir," the man replied, "and I am tiring of your rudeness."

"Forgive me" replied the chastened Ben, lessons learnt at the end of a tutors baton kicking in. This man was obviously a fighter and had yet to do anything to deserve his brusqueness. "I am out of sorts today" he added, somewhat understating the problem.

"Indeed" the man replied, moving to leave, before suddenly stopping, "learn some more about duelling and perhaps we will talk again," and with that he left.

"Nutter" Ben swore in Ost, before he too turned and left the scene. It was only then that the three boys on the floor dared to get up and scamper away.

The Academy had not been kind to Ben. He had rapidly found out that the meagre funds that his father had provided for his education were far from the norm and that without the extra pulchritude he was always going to be on the outside. Even affording the rent had been an effort and with each passing week more and more of his finery was finding its way into the grubby hands of pawnbrokers. As his means diminished so his detractors became more obnoxious. Even those who had initially taken to the honest spoken youngster were now avoiding him, especially after his flat refusal to take their proffered loans.

Which had led to the scene in the corridor, one noble nonce with more money than brains had opened his mouth a little too blatantly and Ben's enforced reserve had cracked along with the boy in question's nose. But this was not a long term solution. Soon the last of his family adornments would be gone and then he would be forced to leave. something he had promised not to do till his father called for him. He needed a plan.

o

o

A week later he was standing in the entrance to the DeVir Hall of scars, a flash name for the man's fencing school. He was watching as the fencing master was practising a complex combination, using the wall mirror to aide him. He had been waiting there some time.

"You have something to say?" demanded the fencing master, obviously frustrated with his own performance.

"You told me to seek you out when I had learnt more," Ben replied, "I am and I have."

"Indeed?" remarked DeVir, mopping his brow with a towel, "and what is it you expect from me?"

"I am hoping for a lesson" Ben replied confidently.

"You aren't the only one who has been learning" DeVir replied. "I too have looked, and it seems that you may not have the means to afford such a thing."

"Indeed" replied Ben, with a rapidly suppressed grimace, "However I soon will."

"Explain" DeVir demanded.

"Next month the grand tourney comes to Nuln," Ben began, "I am going to win it, hence money." DeVir smiled.

"You are going to win?" he said, "Just like that?"

"Just like that. I am a superb fighter, I have yet to meet a man who could best me in the foot lists" Ben replied, before tilting his head and offering a small curl on his lip, . "Of course the joust will be fairly tough but I have managed to borrow the gear."

"Borrow?" DeVir asked, "the information I received said that you didn't"

"That's different" Ben replied, "They want me to borrow on the name of my fatehr, and that I cannot do."

"It's fairly normal," DeVir argued.

"Not where I'm from" Ben replied. "So how about it?"

"The lessons?" DeVir replied, "that depends on what you want them for." Ben raised an eyebrow, unsure what to make of the implied question.

"I am going to have to sell the last of my good gear to get ready for the tourney" he provided slowly, watching the older man's reactions, "that will cause...ill-feeling, which in turn will cause ill-thought words, which will demand satisfaction."

"So what you are saying is that you wnat to learn the rapier in two weeks so you can defend your honour from people slandering you for dressing like a pauper," DeVir asked.

"Something like that"

"even though they have a point and that you will be bringing their Academy into disrepute by attending while looking like that."

"Even so" Ben agreed through gritted teeth.

"Fine" replied DeVir after a pause. He walked to the rack, selected a foil and threw it to the young Cromwell. "Let's see what you've got." It was patently obvious that the boy had very little indeed. In fact at a guess DeVir would have said the boy had never held a fencing sword before. he would have been nearly right. "Boy" DeVir called, "I have no time for coddling children."

"You won't need to" Ben replied, studying the master carefully before shifting his grip to the right manner, "I learn very fast." The session that followed saw Ben brutally stabbed in his doublet by the master's blunted blade more times than he could count. It also saw the master thoroughly amazed at how fast the boy picked up techniques. By the time DeVir kicked him out Ben had already learnt more than any other student had managed inside three moths of training.

Come back tomorrow afternoon" DeVir called as Ben moved to leave, and the boy's face lit up, he had done it. Now all he needed to do was find someone to teach him how to joust.

o

o

o

**Chapter 2**

The afternoon was hot and muggy, by the time Ben reached the Hall of Scars he was already sweating. The fact that he had run the entire way did not help, nor that he had hardly been idle during the morning. as the noonday bells finished chiming he let himself in as he had the day before, and seeing nobody using the hall, dressed in the training gear and began practising. Half an hour later DeVir came down from his home above the hall.

"Ben?" he asked.

"Yes Master DeVir" Ben replied, throwing a quick salute.

"Aren't you a little early?" the master queried.

"You only said the afternoon" Ben replied, "I didn't enter the hall till the bells stopped..."

"Ben, Ben, Ben" DeVir said shaking his head. "What am I going to do with you."

"I was hoping that we might do the parry-passe-gauche today" Ben replied, pretending to miss the meaning, but giving himself away with the cheeky smile. DeVir just shook his head again and began putting his own jacket on.

"If you have only been here for that much time why are you so tired?" DeVir asked as he began his stretches.

"I spent the morning in the training lists" Ben replied, "getting knocked on my ass" he added resentfully.

"You turn up to my session tired and sore?" DeVir demanded, his temper flaring, "How do you expect to learn anything like that?"

"I need to be slower!" Ben replied, raising his own voice to match, "Otherwise my footwork will never improve! yesterday I was compensating for lack of skill by using old methods, I need to learn the right ones, or there ain't much point!"

"Indeed" replied DeVir defused, his sharp mind again marvelling at his new student's grasp of the situation, "A convenient excuse. But this time it washes. Very well En Garde!"

The session that followed stretched DeVir more than he could have ever possibly expected from a new student. Time and time again he was forced to up the ante and pull out new moves, only to find them repeated back to him. The culmination came when he suddenly found himself disarmed. With a neat flick and twist Ben curled the master's blade out of his hand and across the room.

"Where the hell did you learn that!" DeVir demanded, pulling his helmet off and starting to suspect that the boy was playing him for a fool.

"You were practising it when I came on yesterday," Ben explained after pulling his own helm free, "I worked it out last night."

"You worked it out?" DeVir replied, suddenly more amazed than angry, "That move is a Master's trick!"

"So?" Ben replied, "I just learnt it a little early" he offered cheekily. DeVir returned the good natured smile and pulled his helmet back on.

"Very well, oh Master-in-training, Have at you!" he called and began the assault once more. Once more he marvelled at the boy's learning curve, as he first learnt and then mastered moves that should have taken him weeks to even be able to follow. His smile was only matched by that of his student. Even when they were forced to take breaks by sheer exhaustion they spent the time talking through moves and counters for them. This was what he always dreamed of, a student he could teach to excel.

Needless to say the two of them lost track of time. They hardly even noticed the light dimming other than to add it to the variables of the contests. But as all good things must the session was once more brought to an end.

"Father dinner is getting cold" scolded a voice. The two fencers turned and for the first time in his life Ben was smitten. Standing at the foot of the stairs that led to the DeVir residence was a vision of earth;y beauty. She was dressed in a pale summer gown, clinched high at the, somewhat revealing, bust in accordance with fashion. Her braided hair was dark brunette, almost dark enough to be black but at the same time light enough to shine in the evening glow. Her skin was not pale as the Haute Couture demanded by rather slightly tanned and beautifully accented by natural colour in her cheeks. Her smile was nothing short of radiant, but what really caught his attention were her eyes, framed in those dark eyelashes they were a brilliant blue-grey, as if some divinity had captured a storm sky and placed i there as the ultimate jewellery.

"Ben!" barked DeVir, suddenly bringing him back to his senses. "We must finish for the day" he added, sternly but with an obvious hint of regret. "I will see you tomorrow"

"Yes mater DeVir" Ben replied, bowing perfunctorily and grabbing his gear. He cast one look back at the descended goddess only to find her face averted and reddened in a blush. In an instant he was ashamed. All the way home he was all but literally kicking himself. The girl was clearly DeVir's daughter, and therefore a city-girl. He didn't need another lesson as to what that sort of girl thought of him. "I didn't even ask her name!"

* * *

A/N

this is set in a gamers version of the warhammer roleplay world. The characters are my own.

The fellowship of the black rose are cavaliers dedicated to the principles of courtly love and its highest ideals. They regularly help maidens escape unwanted mariiages, lovers unite across boders, tht sort of thing. (sorry nothing to do with Kodachi at all)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter three.

"When were you planning on telling me" DeVir asked, a hint of steel in his voice. The two of them were once more in the Hall of scars, taking a break after a furious fencing session that had seen the master fighting with an aggression that Ben had never seen in him before.

"About?" Ben tried, innocently.

" Don't give me that" DeVir replied, temper flaring. "You know fine well!"

"Aye" Ben replied after a moments silence, "yes I do, and I don't know."

"You don't think I have a right to know?" demanded DeVir mollifying slowly.

"I guess" Ben replied, making a show of wiping his foil so he didn't have to meet his master's eyes.

"You guess!" demanded the fencing coach, his blood back up. "I should expect a little more than that!"

"What can I say?" replied Ben, facing his master with fire in his own eyes. "That I'm sorry? Well I'm not. That I should have known better. Well I did, but when it came down to it what choice did I have?"

" Do you even know how well connected that boy was?" DeVir demanded, "Or how many enemies you made by running him through?"

"No and no!" replied Ben, "But what could I do he didn't leave me any choice. It was him or me, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be me." He and the older man locked glares for a long moment before DeVir backed down, softening his face.

"You had better tell me how it happened," he said. Ben nodded.

"It all started just the way I thought it would, you know snide comments about having people's leavings and stuff. An I was prepared to let that stuff go, I mean like you said they had a point. But then Dooblemien has to push it further. He… well he was really rude you know. So I told him to stick it. Well he laughs it off and so I think that's the end of it.

"But it ain't, the next day he starts again, only this time he's got this bruiser with him. A big broken nosed guy who earns his money breakin' folk's legs. Doobleheim-"

"That is Doublay-Heim" DeVir interrupts, "It is a very old name from the Breton border, one with a lot of pull in the Empire."

"Yeah well" Ben continues, "Doublayheim he asks what I'm going to do now. Saying that I can't handle a bit of my own filthy style or something. So I step up, punch thug-boy in the solar plexus, bust his nose and put him out with a right cross. By now Doobleheim is filling his hose, thinking he's next. But I remember what you said so I don't just lamp him as well."

"You challenged him?" DeVir guessed. Ben nodded.

"Yeah, I challenged him. And yesterday we met. I used one of the Myrmidians as a second-"

"Because you didn't want to ask me," DeVir supposed.

"Yes," Ben replied, "We fought. He was a lot quicer than I thought but I cut him. Only he wouldn't let it lie."  
"Well he wouldn't" DeVir responded, "Being as how he was the best of my students before you came along."

"Oh" Ben replied, things falling into place.

"So?" DeVir prompted.

"So what?" Ben asked.

"So how did that lead to a young man on Morr's slab?" DeVir demanded.

"He just kept pushing it," Ben responded. "I tried not to but he wouldn't call it quits."

"And so you ran him through?"

"Yes" Ben replied, "he didn't leave me any choice. You can ask the Myrmidians. Or for that matter Dooble's second, even he must have seen it."

"He did" DeVir replied, "Unfortunately he is telling a different story."

"Like what?" Ben asked.

"Like that you took Dooble apart piece by piece and then ran him through without a hint of regret or any thought of mercy."

"It wasn't like that" Ben objected vehemently, "You can't believe that."

"I don't" DeVir replied. But even though he didn't add the phrase 'not any more' they both still heard it.

"I should go" Ben said quietly.

"No" DeVir interjected, stopping Ben as he was removing his jacket, "you shouldn't. I thought wrong of you and I should apologise," the older man finished with sincerity. Ben Nodded. The master watched him for a moment then spoke again, "I guess I'm a little more of a 'city-folk' than I thought" he finished copying one of Ben's favourite curses.

"Apology accepted" Ben said, turning, "and it's a good thing for you too!" he said with mock venom. DeVir responded with mock indignation and soon the two were battling across the hall again.

o

o

"I take it that it didn't go too well then" Master DeVir observed as the downcast Cromwell limped into his hall. It was another week later, the last day of the Tourney. The normally irrepressible young man was waling in shamefaced and obviously sore. His left arm was wrapped in a large black bandage, which secured it across his chest, and his left leg seemed to be giving him more than a little trouble.

"Yeah" Ben replied, "You could say that"

"So?"

"So I'm sorry I ain't gonna be able to train with you no more" Ben responded ruefully. "I can cover the lessons up till now if I sell the horse but I'm gonna need all the money I won from the foot lists to cover my rent."

"What happened" DeVir asked, sitting down and waving a hand to invite Ben to do the same.

"Came in fourth" Ben said in a small voice.

"In the foot?" DeVir asked, impressed, after all he knew what sort of competition had gathered.

"Nah!" Ben replied, indignant, "I won that! Just me leg got a bit beat and my shoulder gave up so when I-"

"You won the foot?" DeVir interrupted, incredulous, "and then you went on to compete in the lists?"

"No" replied Ben, "I was doing one match ion each as I went" he explained, "had to run from one to the other, but only nearly got disqualified."

"You won the foot lists?" DeVir repeated.

"Yes!" Ben replied, "What's so strange about that, I told you I was good!"

"You're seventeen!" DeVir replied, "There were people there with twice as much experience as you!"

"Yeah! An' some of them were pretty good" Ben replied, not getting his trainer's point, "Had to sacrifice the leg to beat the Middenlander, and the Marshal guy bust me shoulder up a treat when I fed him that to take him down."

"That Middenlander was the Eternal Champion of the city!" DeVir replied, "possibly one of the finest knights the Empire has ever produced!"

"Tell me about it," Ben groused, "Guy made me look like a complete novice in the joust."

"You are a complete novice in the joust!" DeVir replied amazement in every word. "There is no way you should have been able to get that far!"

"What are you saying?" Ben demanded, eyes narrowing.

"I am saying, my young friend" DeVir said with a smile and a pat on the back, "That every time I think you have pulled out your last trick you find a new way to amaze me."

"Well heh" Ben said, embarrassed, "I told you I'm good at this sort of thing."

"So what do we do with you now?" DeVir asked.

"I really don't know" Ben replied, "I was counting on that money. Teaches me, doesn't it."

"A good lesson" DeVir replied. "Don't worry we'll think of something," the man added squeezing his protégé's good shoulder. "In the mean time how about you come over for dinner tonight?"

"I'd be honoured sir" Ben replied honestly.

"I'll see you at eight then" the master offered, and received a smile in return.

o

o

It was perhaps then that the two of them really began to realise that they had become more than just master and student, they were friends.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Four**

"Damn" Ben swore. It was only after he got back to his attic room that he realised what he had agreed to. Sure it was normal practice for a master to eat with his student when that person 'graduated' or at least could no longer train with him. But that wasn't the whole story, DeVir's daughter was going to be there.

Ben had done a very good job of not embarrassing himself around her any more. He had been as civil as he could every time they had met. Whenever she had come into the hall to chase up her father for a meal he had bowed politely and found something else to do. Avoiding even looking at her. Much. Okay so maybe he had glnced at her a few times out of the corner of his eyes and maybe, just maybe he had caught her glancing back once or twice, but that was probably just to check he wasn't staring again, wasn't it?

"Arrrgh!" he shouted to the world at large, sitting heavily down into his chair. "Women!" he cried aloud. They always complicated things, just look at his father's experience. Add to that how much they cost, even his richest former friends had lamented the rate their girlfriends ate through their allowances. No, he decided, he would leave all that till he was better established. Far better to be a bachelor and keep what little he had.

"There he said" now dressed for the meal. He had put on his best suit, not that that was saying much, purely because it was the only one that was clean, not because he wanted to impress anyone. He had put aside all thoughts of that sort of thing, honest.

As it happened he needn't have worried the beauty in question was not there. A fact that the elder DeVir told him the moment he caught the young man looking around as he stepped into the house.

"She's staying away at a lady friend's house" DeVir told him, and tried not to laugh as the boy reacted with a face that was part relief and part disappointment. "Ah to be young" he mused, then he remembered the problems love had caused him and changed his mind. "I should warn you" he said with mock severity "she was very keen on Dooble-whatsit"

"No" Ben replied, almost mortified.

"Yes" DeVir responded, "When she was seven."

"Bastard" Ben replied grumpily. "Not that I would care mind you," he tried, only succeeding in making DeVir laugh out loud.

The meal was far from the fancy fare of the palace but it was hearty good food, and a lot better than Ben was used to eating. He dug in like a man possessed, much to his teacher's amusement, and eventually his. From there the evening went very pleasantly. They shared more than a little wine and compared historical fencing anecdotes and styles till the early morning. By the time Ben left he was not only thoroughly sizzled but also feeling the sort of camaraderie that he had not known since his time in the anti-orc patrols.

Needless to say he suffered for it something rotten the next day. Combined with the pain of his re-located shoulder and the throbbing of his inured leg a hangover made that next morning one of the darkest he would ever have. So instead of going and paying off his debts that day he stayed in bed.

As a result stories of exactly who had won the foot lists spread and when he did get up the next day there were more than a few invitations to visit all sorts of notables waiting for him. So instead of going around himself he was forced to send DeVir the money he owed him and spend his day answering letters.

With the sorts of gifts he was receiving he could not refuse the invitations and soon found himself attending one function after another. Fortunately for him, if somewhat embarrassingly, the hosts of most seemed to understand his lack of funds and nobody so much as sneered in his direction.

It was only later that he discovered that the reprieve was more to do with his dangerous reputation than any kindness on the part of his hosts. It might also be worth mentioning that he was under no illusions about this passing popularity and was more using it to restock some of his depleted reserves and get some free meals than actually believing the shallow city-folk had really taken a liking to him.

When he did eventually make it to the Hall it was on the way back from one such 'function,' this one had been at the college of artillerists and had been more than tedious. On the other hand they had presented him with a fine statue of a knight charging a cannon. He had recognised the jibe as it was, but had been far more interested in the resale value of the figurine than their message. After all nobody in their right mind would swap one of those smelly, inaccurate chunks of metal for a real weapon. The poor fools were exploring up a dead end and were to be pitied for it.

As he stepped into the Hall he spotted a lone figure going through their paces opposite the mirror. Assuming it was Master DeVir he had been about to ambush them when he noticed that the figure was nowhere near tall enough for the fencing master. He rapidly figured it to be one of the students, and a very advanced one at that, especially for their apparent age.

"You're too low" he said aloud, startling the student from their practice. They turned and he could practically feel the glare levelled through the mask. Even in the non-descript jacket and mask the unknown person was practically shouting hostility at him. "You're too low" he repeated adamantly, walking over. "That's fine if you are trying to tickle them, or even if you were fighting someone your age but you won't be." The kid rather than reply waved him off and went back to their practice.

Ben slapped the unknown student's sword aside as he came around them. "Don't be stupid" he commanded. "This isn't something you want to be stubborn about. Stab a man in the chest and you kill them, stab him in the gut and he still has enough time to kill you and seek healing. Now try it, and I'll show you what I mean." With that he backed off and dropped into a ready stance.

Indeed when Ben let the thrust reach him it did so into his belly. At which point he slapped his foil around his opponent's face. "See!" he demanded, "Now try again, higher!" This time he got his message across and his opponent did as they were told. "Now," he began "what are they going to do to counter?" he asked. The student demonstrated a high guard and he nodded. "Now let's add that and see where it goes shall we." Again the student nodded and son they were sparring across the hall. The fight was punctuated by barked commands as Ben corrected the various combinations thrown at him and only eventually stopped when they were interrupted by an oh so familiar slow clap.

"Well done" said Master DeVir "I think you have found the answer"

"What?" the two fighters replied in chorus.

"Ben," DeVir continued, "You shall join me here, and lead some of the lessons."

"And?" the young man asked.

"And" DeVir continued, "We shall take twice as many students and teach them between us."

"I don't follow where-" Ben replied, still coming out of his fighting mode.

"And that way" DeVir pushed on, "You shall earn the money to pay me for my lessons" he finished with a smile.

"Now hold on" Ben cut in "There's something-"

"Okay" DeVir conceded in mock reluctance "I'll train you after we finish with the students. That way you won't cost me too much money."

"Hang on" replied Ben, catching on, "Don't you mean that I'll train you? After all I am the Tourney champion here"

"Hah" replied DeVir jokingly, "We'll see about that." And with that he drew one of the practice foils from the stand and took up a stance. Soon the two of them were fighting across the floor, happy in their mutual competitiveness.

Unseen the young student slipped away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Five**

The next few years were some of the happiest Ben Cromwell would ever experience. Living from his loft he attended the hall almost every day, teaching the art he had come to love. He even managed to have real conversations with young Catherine DeVir, having finally asked her for her name. Somehow through the few meetings they had the two became good friends.

Good to his word he and his former fencing master were soon training each other more than the older teaching the younger. Together they took on a great many more students than the Hall had known before and managed to make it a lot more profitable, if only by initially using Ben's title to attract more noble, and therefore rich, students. And every so often that short, mysterious, silent student would return and one or the other of the masters would train them late into the evening.

Nor did the young Cromwell content himself with the one art, whenever tourneys were held within reach Ben would take a break and attend. As time went by, even after his beginner's luck ran out, he was winning far more than he was losing. The reputation gained from such wins did the hall no damage at all.

Not that this success showed very much in the man himself, Ben hoarded his winnings with all the possessiveness of any man who had known poverty. After an initial splurge he saved the lot, making even a dwarven banker look like a rake.

This attitude, so far from what was normal, made him very few friends indeed. As he had predicted soon the invitations dried up, even those that used to follow his tourney wins soon faded away. One of the largest catalysts for this was the proclamation that came form home.

It came through his friend. One day Jacques was collecting a due debt from the master of heraldry when he chanced upon a letter on the man's desk. It was a copy of a letter from the armorial college in Ostermark, the Cromwell family had ceased to exist.

"Ben" Jacques DeVir told his friend, "Your father has disinherited you."

"What?" Ben demanded.

"Read this" Jacques said, passing the younger man a letter he had 'borrowed' form the armorial college. Ben looked at the letter his heart sinking. In it his father renounced the Cromwell name, taking, surprise surprise, his wife's maiden name, and renounced Ben. There in black and white was his father's words, claiming that his mother had been unfaithful and that Ben was little better than a whoreson. Anger swelled up in his breast.

"Ben?" Jacques asked, extending an arm.

"It's okay" Ben replied, "I always knew she would try and squeeze me out, I just never thought at she would get him to renounce his own name too! Bitch!"

"What are you going to do about it?" DeVir asked.

"Nothing" Ben replied

"Nothing?" DeVir queried

"Nothing" Ben repeated, "it's his right, and not my place to argue."

So life went on, and it was god. Even without the title the nobles kept coming and kept paying. Strangely enough defaulting on a debt to a school for duellists was a remarkably rare occurrence.

Ben Even found time to finally 'graduate' from the Academy and the time to gloat about it to a certain crooked nosed student whose father would not let him return home until he had a letter from his professor. One that the professor would not give until the snob in question actually learnt something. The fact that daddy dearest kept cutting the young man in question's allowance certainly didn't help either.

One of the few blips in young Cromwell's life that was of his own making came when a former friend came to him, begging his aid in getting him out of a jam. The man in question had wooed the wrong damsel and now found himself facing the real prospect of a duel with a professional soldier. Ben applied a bit of pressure, the matter was dropped and he thought that would be the end of it. Only it wasn't soon other college 'friends' and 'friends of friends' were coming to him requesting help with similar issues. Because of the man he was he tried to help those who seemed to deserve it and took gifts for his services only reluctantly. Nevertheless, or perhaps even as a result of this attitude his name was creeping up into higher and higher circles as someone trustworthy to go to for help.

Then things changed again. A few days after his twenty first birthday Ben got news from home. That the Marquis sponsored anti-orc patrols had stopped came as little surprise, what did come as a surprise was that other raids on the greenskins had been banned too in the interest of 'keeping the peace'. Sure enough the eventual result had been a whole tribe of displaced orcs moving into the farmlands of the march and settling the area so recently deserted by their lunch. His home was in very real danger of turning back into another orc-infested wilderness.

"I'm sorry Jaques" he explained, "I have to go."

"You don't owe them anything" the master had argued, a statement his daughter backed up wholeheartedly.

"That's not how I see it" Ben replied, "duty's duty and my duty is to defend that land."

"Even after all-"

"Even after," Ben asserted, "I will return as soon as I can."

"Fine" Catherine replied, sounding anything but, an attitude that thoroughly confused Ben.

"You will be missed" Jacques asserted, adding a pointed look at his daughter, a look that Ben missed entirely. "When do you go?" he continued, resisting the impulse to roll his eyes at the young man's ignorance.

"As soon as I can arrange the company I want" he replied.

That spring Ben Cromwell rode to war and he would never know the same peace again.

0


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Six**

Ben Cromwell rode to war under a generic banner. It was a field sable with a sun rising d'or dividing, or to the orcs a bloody black flag with a sun on it. He had gathered to him a set of old mercenaries, men who were perhaps a little too old to be still riding campaigns. Many of them were married and forced back onto the war trails by misfortune rather than design. They were exactly the sort of men Ben Cromwell needed, hard men with something to fight for.

By the time they reached Vaastmark they had been subjected to hours of drills and practices concerning the fighting of greenskins. Nevertheless Ben did not ride them right into the fray. Instead he called upon the Marquis at his castle. The exchange did not go well.

Posing as a random Knight of the grand Mark Ben informed the castle that he was there to collect the bounty on Orc ears, as promised in ancient charter. Even the prematurely aging lord of the demesne could not argue with that law. Nor could he expect to be able to pay it. Which is why Ben let him off with a vague promise of land in lieu. And with that Ben's company rode off, completely ignoring the lady Maquess' invitations to dine.

She was of course livid with her husband and in front of their new daughters and household staff publicly berated him for his wild spending. For once the man managed to find enough spine to tell her to shut up and remind her that his ownership of the march was entirely dependant upon his ability to hold back the green tide.

He had not however banked on the sheer success of the company in question. Time and time again they managed to not only drive the greenskins from their conquered lands but drive them into a trap that utterly destroyed them. Sacks of ears were arriving by the mule train load. And every time he had either to pay up or pass another piece of land into the control of this strange knight. What was worse his own people were joining in. It seemed every man-jack who lived anywhere near the new border was taking up 'scragging' to supplement their income.

By the end of the summer the remaining orcs in the lowlands had taken to slicing their own ears off in an attempt to avoid wholesale slaughter. It didn't work, the riders just took to sending whole faces instead. Lady Abomove of course tried not to pay. That was until her husband presented the alternative, without even the rangers who used to quell the orcs he had barely a handful of men to stop these knights from stealing everything they had. She acquiesced with customary bad grace and a silent vow to get her revenge on him.

The 'Hunt' went on well into autumn and for a while the Marqus feared that even winter would not stop it. By now the 'scraggers' were ranging well into the mountains after their prey, it had simply become far too hard to find the greenskins as they hid in the darkest depths of unpopulated forest lowlands. But relief came in the form of a visit by the mysterious knight who had led the effort.

"I will take the deeds to my land now" the blond young man had said through his muffling scarf, and the Marquis, so long used to obedience had handed it over. Of course the land he handed over was mostly the land that the mercenaries had reclaimed and therefore all but unpopulated but he had to keep the wife happy…. It came as quite a surprise then when the knight accepted the land happily. It was only the following spring that the Marquis found out that the knight in question had paid off those men who had helped hunt with the land, apparently keeping none for himself. Marquess Abomove was livid once more. Rather than leave as her husband had promised these thugs were now setting up homesteads in what had been his land. Homesteads that would not have to pay her coffers any taxes. That they now presented an armed border between the rest of the march and the mountains was completely beside the point to her and her fury at the lost income lasted for weeks.

O

O

And Ben Cromwell returned o the Hall. He arrived during high spring of the year after he had left, and he arrived a more sombre man. He had done his duty and waged a skirmish war of genocide against the greenskins, knowing full well that the ones he fought were the weakest of the mountain tribes, forced into the lowlands because they were weak and had nowhere else to be. But that wasn't what made him sombre, they were orcs and there simply wasn't enough room for their race and that of men on the face of the world. Nor was it that he had put the families of good men into the firing line; they were after all protected by exactly the same riders who had driven out the menace in the first place. No what made him sombre was what he had seen in the house that he had called home.

The walls were holed to make way for large windows, the utilitarian and local furs replaced with imported wall hangings and carpets. The few guards on the walls were dressed in bright colours and carried shiny spears, with less ability than the old stable maid had managed. Worst of all his father, the man who folk used to call the Man-Mountain had run to flab and ill-health. The man been could remember lifting a bench load of people had seemed to struggle to make it to the local pub. Once there the frail, coughing fat man had barely touched his beer.

Ben had also seen the young heiresses. Two golden haired creatures with turned up noses and pretty dresses. One had even cried when she got a spot of mud on her flounces, and Lady Abomove had of course blamed the whole thing on her husband, shaming him in front of a stranger. It had taken all of Ben's willpower not to strike her.

Needless to say he was glad to quit the place, and even gladder to know that with the structures he put in place he would not have to return in a hurry. The sight of the Hall of Scars came to him like a cold compress on a fever. It was then he realised where his home really was, and for the first time since he left the accursed castle he smiled.

A smile that got all the larger when he was practically bowled over by an effusive Catherine. He had just enough time to take in her stunning smile when she buried her face into his mail-clad shoulder and cried. It was then he made another revelation; he was never going to understand women.

Behind her came her father, his friend Jacques, looking no different form the day Ben had left. Reaching around the crying beauty he clasped his former mentor's hand and shook it with real joy.

"Welcome home son" the man replied and it was true.


	6. Chapter 6

**Arc 2**

**Part 1**

Ben had no sooner set about the business of restarting his city life when things began to happen that would forever prevent any return to what was before. The first hint of the way things were to be came in the form of a knock at the door of his small Attic room. Ben was busy unpacking boxes and looking at the clothes he had been wearing with his soldier's eye, the interruption, when it came, was more than a little welcome.

"Open," he called, setting aside another lace ruff with a shake of his head.

"I am looking for Sir Cromwell" the new arrival's voice announced.

"You found him" he replied, suddenly noticing how his own voice had matured over the last year.

"Ah" the man replied straightening. He was short and well dressed in what appeared to be livery of some kind. In the darkness the heraldry was more than a little indistinct, much like the man's face. "I bring you a missive from the Countess" the man announced in an upper class accent. He held out a gilded envelope.

"The Countess?" Ben asked, seating himself on a box to open the missive.

"Yes" the man replied, suddenly speaking as if to a child, "The Countess…"

"Ah" Ben replied as if he understood. He unfolded the letter from the envelope, noting that it too seemed more than a little over-fancy. Holding it up to the light he absentmindedly noticed the messenger had failed to leave. He quickly scanned the letter.

"The COUNTESS!" he blurted. The smug messenger put on his best smile. "Fuck me" the eastern man swore, destroying the fop's mood. "The Countess" he muttered. In all the years Ben had been in Nuln he had only ever glimpsed its ruler twice, once during a festival and once when she attended a party he was at. Both times she had not so much as glanced in his direction. She was not only one of the richest people in the Empire, an aunt to the current Emperor and the undisputed ruler of Sudenland but also the yardstick by which the country judged its fashions.

Yet in the hands of the young exile he held a personal invitation to the Countess's court. The letter was polite, but not overly so, holding more than a slight edge of command to it, and was signed by the Countess herself. It also gave no indication as to the reasons of the sudden summons. To top it off the day that he was expected to appear was very soon indeed, how the hell could he be ready in time?

"I shall tell her that you will be happy to attend" the messenger prompted.

"No" Ben cut him off, much to the man's astonishment, "I'll send her a letter to that effect." He explained. The messenger nodded in a slightly patronising way. "That's how these things are meant to be done isn't it" Ben asked, suddenly less sure.

"Indeed" The messenger agreed. Ben nodded and went looking for his writing desk. "Er Sir?" the herald broke in, "Perhaps you could send it later?"

"Yes" Ben agreed, stopping his hasty search. "I'll do that" he nodded assertively. Yet the man still didn't seem to be leaving. They looked at each other for a moment then the man pointedly coughed and Ben finally got the idea. He fished into his purse and paid the man a shiny sixpence, which did the trick. Soon Ben was alone once more in his loft, with only his boxes for company.

"Now where did I put that damn desk?" he asked aloud.

O

O

In the end he borrowed the necessaries from Jacques and got Catherine to pen the missive. Not only was her writing far more polished than his but she also seemed to know what to write far better than he did. Despite all of this it took nearly two hours to get the wording into a state that they could both live with and written onto a piece of paper that seemed posh enough. It was then that Catherine asked the fateful question, "So what will you be wearing?"

Now Ben was no longer the 'barbarian' he had been when he arrived in the city so he did have enough of a notion as to what he was going to wear. He explained his ideas to the young lady, and received an emphatic head shake in return.

"No, no no!" she argued, "That won't do. The whole red thing was a passing phase, turn up in that and everyone will know that not only are you out of fashion but you are also desperate to please."

"Well aren't I?" he asked in return.

"Of course you are" she agreed, "It the countess for goodness sake, she can make or break you with one flick of her fan. But you can't possibly go to the court looking like you're desperate."

"Even if I am?" he replied, knowing the answer but more interested in this new side of the young woman he thought he knew.

"Especially if you are" she said in a mock despairing tone. "No," she continued, "what we need is something different, an angle…" Ben just nodded and made an agreeing grunt. Catherine stood up from her desk and began to pace, idly chewing on her lower lip as she did. Of course this stopped any other thoughts entering Ben's head, he had simply never seen her looking this unguarded. Even at the meals he had shared in the house she had always been acting as the hostess, and so more formal than this.

Suddenly she turned on the young knight. "I've got it" she said eyes flashing in triumph and smiled set to dazzle. He might have managed an inquisitive grunt but the very next moment she was right up close and pressing a manicured finger into his chest. "You'll go as a Marcher Knight."

"But I am a Marcher-" he began, confused.

"Exactly!" she agreed in an exultant voice. "If you went as a Nulner then you'd be just another face in the crowd but this way…"

"I'm different?" Ben guessed.

"Indeed you are," she agreed with a warm smile. "Now what we'll need is…" and she drifted off into a long list of thing s that seemed to have absolutely no relevance. Soon she was even making lists. It took Ben a little while to catch up, but by that time what he thought really had no bearing on the situation anyway.

O

O

So here he was, a little under a week later, dressed in what Catherine had decided was 'authentic' Mark attire. His boots were polished, black, and leather. His trousers were ostensibly utilitarian riding breeches, but in fact the single most expensive article of clothing he had ever bought, at least until the doublet had arrived. It was cut in suede and linen, black with yellow highlights and silver buttons. Over the top he wore a severe fur-lined pelisse, held with a solid looking bronze double clasp. Rather than carry one of the slim rapiers that were so in fashion this season he was equipped with his own heavy sabre and broad knife.

With a nervousness that he hadn't felt since the night before his first battle he approached the twenty-foot high oak gates to the ancient Palace of kings. He never even needed to present his invitation.


	7. Chapter 7

**Arc 2, Part 2.**

The 'Privy chamber' far from being a glorified closet, or indeed a private room of any description, was a humungous hall. All along it's sides hung tapestries that dated back to when this room was the most royal of chambers in the Empire. The hall was lit with an array of permanent steady lights, flames frozen in mid dance yet still giving off their luminescence after literally centuries. At the very head of the rom sat a raised dais on which rested the jewelled Throne of Kings, and upon that reclined the single most powerful woman in the Empire.

Emmanuelle, The Countess of Nuln and Sudenland, Imperial Elector and most royal of aunts looked nothing short of divine. She was dressed in an ivory, pearl and snow lace gown that fanned out across the throne making it look like so much irrelevant scenery. Her Beautiful golden locks fell around her shoulders in an angelic spray, without a hint of grey in them to betray her full sixty years of age. Her face, although delicately dusted with the priciest makeup the city state had to offer, was a marvel of naturalness and inner beauty. Even as Ben entered some comment or another made the apparition laugh, and it was the tinkling of bells.

"Don't worry about it" hissed Ben's guide, "The glamour gets everyone like that." It was only then that the young Marcher Knight realised quite how gormless he must look as he stared at the Royal host. "Ready?" the man hissed and Ben took a moment to square his shoulders before nodding. Then he was announced.

"Sir Cromwell, Knight of Vaastmark, champion of the Grand Tourney, Champion of Campus Martius, Champion of Kemp, Master of the Sylvanian Laurel…" the list went on, and Ben tried not to look amazed. If he were to tell the truth he had lost count of how many of those tournament titles he had collected, but they obviously hadn't. By the time the herald finished every eye in the room was on the fur dressed knight that stood at its door. The silence was deafening.

" You are most welcome champion" announced a voice, clear and precise. Ben was silently wishing for the ground to open at the time so nearly missed the following 'invitation' in his haste to bow. "Please approach," the Countess finished, and any fool who took it as a request would have found a door far faster than they ever planned on.

Ben swallowed and strode as confidently as he could towards the throne, ignoring all around him and fixing his gaze upon the room's centrepiece. As he arrived he performed the 'authentic' bow that Catherine had taken an age to teach him and straightened, looking his hostess straight in the eye as he would any leader who was about to issue commands.

The room exploded into whispers, the sheer presumption of the man, how dare he? To look the Emperor's aunt in the eye like that. Half the room expected an immediate reprisal, the other half knew their ruler better.

Instead of indignation the royal Aunt reacted with interest, she raised a delicate eyebrow and waited for her guest to speak. A hint of a smile curled the corner of her lip, if nothing else this young man promised to add a little extra variety to the day.

"Your Grace. By your command, I stand ready for your orders," Ben offered formally with a textbook bow. In fact his brain was in near total eclipse and it was all he could think of to say. It was only after the words escaped that he realised just how silly he must sound.

"Indeed?" The countess replied, hiding her amusement just enough not to publicly shame the young man, "I do not remember issuing a command," she added almost as if she believed she might have been mistaken. Ben snorted, by now he had abandoned all attempts at higher brain functions and was operating purely on instinct.

"Your wish is our command" he retorted, wincing the moment he realised what he had said.

"Indeed" she echoed, "How nice of you to say so. But tell me Sir knight, how far exactly does that go?"

"Does what go?" Ben replied genuinely confused.

"Your willingness to follow my whims?" the countess continued with a smile.

"Your grace?" Ben queried, "You rule this city and the land it's in, we are your subjects, you command we obey." He seemed genuinely confused by the question.

"Go on?" The older woman prompted, leaning forward a little.

"As a subject in your land I owe you loyalty, as a knight I owe you duty. As a man of honour I can do no else."

"Ah" replied the countess, "hence your father." For the attendant crowd this was rapidly becoming more than a little surreal.

"Your grace?" Ben asked, lost by the non-sequitur.

"Your father behaved abominably to you," she explained, holding up a hand to stop his protests. "A fact that you will not agree on," she conceded, "but a fact nonetheless," she added, undoing the good of her earlier statement. "Despite this you sponsored your own company and rode to his rescue, even going so far as to hide your identity from him." Once again she had to hold up a hand to prevent him from interrupting, this time she backed it up with a pointed glare. "I may be old but I am not deaf, and any man that hires a quantity of my old guard warrants my attention," she explained, "especially if he then sets them up as his own retainers."

"Your grace" Ben objected. Only to be hushed by the countess once more.

"You must stop interrupting" she insisted, but her eyes were twinkling as she said it. "You set them up as your retainers. I know that in theory they are independent but are you seriously telling me that should you call they would not come running? No I thought not." She was leaning forwards once more, a mixture of mirth and hard intelligence in her eyes. "What interests me is why," she explained, "Not why you hired them or why you cam to this accommodation with them. Bnut why you would do this for your father." She paused and Ben was about to reply but she cut him off again, "And now I know. You are what we call an anachronism. It isn't an accurate description because the days of high chivalry are the invention of bards and historians" she spoke the last with venom. "And yet here you are, romantic ideals shining from you like you were a character in a chivalric lay, promising service to me. Well we shall see if we can't find you something fitting." With that she turned to a councillor near her and resumed a conversation she had been having before he was presented. The audience, or interrogation, was over.

"Fuckin' city folk," he muttered in Ost, confident that the southerners wouldn't catch his meaning. Suddenly adrift in the massive room, he toyed with the idea of making a break for fresh air, and then was forced to discard the idea in favour of a 'stay out of sight' plan. It wasn't to last, no sooner had he picked a secluded area than he was surrounded by people who obviously wanted to talk to him. It was not looking good.


	8. Chapter 8

**Act 2 part 3**

When Ben left he headed straight for the Hall. It just seemed the right thing to do. However when he got there things were not how he expected. The hall was not working as it should have been at this hour, and nor was there any sign of the DeVirs.

He went in, suddenly wary, but found no sign of a struggle. Carefully he crept upstairs, hand ready on his sabre. Faintly deeper into the building he could make out hushed voices and that was enough to make up his mind. With care he drew the sword and wrapped his pelisse cape around his left arm.

He reached the door behind which was the source of the whispering and paused. Still he couldn't make out the voices. But he couldn't wait, whatever had gone on here wasn't going to sort itself out. He burst through the door, sweeping his sword around into a ready stance, prepared to run down any miscreants.

There was no need.

Instead of hostages he found the two DeVirs calmly sat on a bed talking. In his hands Jacques held a letter and his daughter, far from being put upon by thugs was holding her father's arm and reading over his shoulder. Of course all of this changed whrn Ben burst in. Catherine was flung backwards and Jacques leapt up, reaching for his own blade.

"Whoa" Ben called, suddenly face with the possibility of being squewered by his friend.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Jacques angrily.

"I er, that is to say I," Ben stuttered, trying to explain. "There was nobody downstairs so I…" He was saved from further stumblings by Catherine's peal of laughter. Both men looked at her, Ben reddening and Jacques more than a little confused.

"He thought we were in trouble" she giggled, finally letting Jacques understand.

"Is that true?" the fencing master asked, calming.

"Yes, sort of" Ben replied, more than a little distracted by his angel's beautiful laugh. "that is I.." finally Jacques laughed too and soon even Ben was forced to join in.

From there the young man was invited to stay for dinner so as to tell them all about his day at court, and how exactly it had left him in a frame of mind that assumed the worst. Catherine served the meal, smiling all the time, and Jacques laughed outright when ben relayed exactly what he had said to the Countess.

"Young man you are priceless!" he crowed, only to be tapped on the back of the head with a spoon by his daughter.

"I think it's lovely" she announced, "And wish a few more men were like that" but her smile was showing more amusement than she intended and once more the young man was left burning with embarrassment.

"So what was the letter?" he asked, desperately trying to change the subject. Only it worked a little better than he intended. Jacques face fell and his daughter's filled with concern.

"It was from my mother in law" the older man explained. This was interesting in itself, Jacques rarely mentioned anything to do with Catherine's mother let alone her family. "Her husband has died and she has finally given me permission to go to where my dearest Cathy is buried."

"Cathy is your wife" Ben surmised.

"Was my wife" Jacques corrected, "she took ill and died not long after Catherine was born. I wasn't allowed to help" real pain was showing through from the older man.

"Her father didn't approve?"

"Her father hated the air that I breathed" Jacques replied ruefully. "We fell in love young and it ruined her," he explained, "her father told her that I would b the death of her, and he wasn't far wrong." Sorrow was now evident in every ounce of the man's being. His daughter reached around from behind him and wrapped him in a hug. "When she fell ill I managed to convince her that her father's wealth could provide a cure that we could not. She argued but in the end I won. Her father sent a man, her former fiancé, to collect her and that was the last I ever saw of her. She died three weeks later."

"And now you can.." Ben guessed

"Indeed," Jacques agreed. "I will go tomorrow," he announced.

"You mean we will go" argued his daughter, causing him to turn.

"Indeed" added Ben, "We" he emphasised." He reached out an arm to clasp his friends shoulder. "You will have your private time but you do not have to do this alone." Jacques clasped his hand briefly and nodded, leaning into his daughter.

"Thank you" he muttered, and he meant it.

o

o

The next day they laid in all the preparations they needed for the trip, and hired the carriage that would take them there. Ben had argued against such things but Jacques had insisted, there was no way his daughter was going to be seen riding astride a saddle.

They set out just after dawn the next day. The trip would take them a whole week barring accidents and they would be sticking to the main roads for most of the way. Jacques and Catherine rode in the carriage and Ben, stubborn as ever rode by the side, citing invented bandit trouble as a reason not to ride in the 'ladies' cart' as he put it.

Despite the mournful end to which the trip was devoted the voyage soon took on a more relaxed feel. Along the main roads wardens patrolled often enough to make a lie of Ben's fears and the 'Wolf Runner' staging inns were of a very high standard this close to Nuln. So each evening the small group of them would gather in the common room of the inn, share a meal, a conversation, and an evening listening to the entertainment laid on by travelling minstrels brought in to sing for their supper.

When they left the main roads and headed off into the less well travelled lands however things began to change. They travelled into Stirland wary of the wilder nature of the province, little did they know just how wild it was going to get.


	9. Chapter 9

**Arc 2 Chapter 4**

When it went wrong it went wrong fast. The coach had no sooner stopped at a tollgate and presented their credentials when from the attached house a small horde of armoured men charged. Besides the sword and shield combination that they all carried they were all wearing tabards, which in turn carried the motif of a noble.

"Loeweschloss" Jacques cursed, recognising the black and red quartered livery and its motifs. This was not good at all. The driver had bolted at the first hint of trouble and that left Ben to face over a dozen heavily armed professional soldiers. Not that that was discouraging the young man, who even now was wheeling his horse around the coach and drawing his heavy sabre. It was then that a resounding 'twang' spilt the air, and Ben was suddenly wearing the bright fletchings of a quarrel in his right shoulder. Jacques had little doubt that had the knight not been as inhumanly fast as he was those same fletchings would have sprouted in a more central location.

Jacques watched his friend reel in the saddle, numbed by the sudden impact, and expected him to fall. However once again the young man surprised him, instead of falling he managed to rear his horse back and use it to buy the time he needed to recover his wits.

As the destrier's hooves came down again they crushed one of the soldiers beneath them, and, with a resounding clash and crack, the knight's sabre split the collarbone of another Jacques was out of the coach in a rush, drawing his own blade without caring where the scabbard ended up. He hurled himself towards the soldiers with something akin to frenzy in his eyes. Little did he know that behind him his daughter had also chosen to join the fight.

Having already taken losses and faced with one mounted knight who refused to die, a frenzied cavalier and a woman with a loaded crossbow in her hands the soldiers' morale started to waver. Before they could run however things changed again. No sooner had Ben struck down another retainer than a second bolt hit him. This one was far less of a solid hit, in fact glancing off his heavy helm but it managed what the other hadn't and cast him from his steed. Suddenly Jacques was alone among them.

Catherine fired the coachman's bow, only to see it break in her hands and the shot literally bounce off of one of the soldiers. It was not enough to save her father. He had managed to push his stiletto thin rapier blade through the chain hauberk of one man and blind another but suddenly found himself surrounded. He whirled and tried to attack only to be brutally struck from behind.

The heavy steel pommel of the sergeant's broadsword crashed into Jacques skull. The man had reversed his blade and swung it with every intent of doing exactly what he had just done, knocking the fencing master silly. As Jacques tried to stand a boot caught him in the kidneys and soon other stamping feet joined in.

Catherine screamed like a hellspawn banshee and threw herself towards the soldiers. Only to be stopped short by the strong right cross of the same sergeant. She went down like a marionette with its strings cut.

From the floor Ben saw all of this happen, in triplicate. His rebellious body was refusing to obey even so far as to let him catch his breath but he tried anyway. With eyes unfocussed and stance uncertain he forced himself to his feet, well aware of the concussion he was suffering and of the blood trickling down his neck and side. He raised his sabre and prepared to charge the men only to be stopped.

"Hold" the sergeant cried in a voice that would have been at home on any parade ground through history, and everything stopped. "We ain't got no orders bout you an the girl" the sergeant informed him, secretly unwilling to hazard his own skin against a man capable of anything like what this young knight seemed to be. "You lay off now an we'll let you an the girl go. Otherwise…."

Even through his dazed, shifting and rapidly diminishing vision Ben could see that the man was in every position to make good his threat. Somewhere out there the archer would have reloaded and the sergeant stood ready by Catherine's stunned form. Ben managed a nod and the men retreated. No sooner had they and their captive disappeared out of sight than Ben fell right back to the floor.

O

O

When Ben awoke again it was dark and he was more than a little uncomfortable. His head throbbed like that of a six foot tall deep dwarf's but that was nothing to how his shoulder felt. He had been injured before, even shot before but right now he didn't remember it being nearly this painful. Added to all the rest there was a terrible stink in the room in which he lay. A mix between rotting meat and midden earth.

"I had to cut the bolt out" informed a woman's voice. "It were lodged in right tight." The voice was rustic and hard, carrying little concern if any. "An' if you break them stitches I'll tan your hide." He tried to mutter some thanks but it came out in a raw croak, his mouth and throat now adding themselves to the list of body parts demanding attention. "You'll be thirsty" the woman said, pressing the clammy back of her hand against his forehead.

If he tried hard he could just make out her hazy shape and that of the jug next to her. She was spectacularly ugly and the horrid smell he had picked up earlier seemed to be her natural odour.

"Yes I bet you are" the crone mused. Then, instead of pouring him a drink or even helping him to sup from the jug, she left. Ben was just musing at this strange behaviour and finding the strength to get the jug himself when another presence entered to room. With a swish of skirts and a perfumed breeze Catherine swept in and was soon holding that same jug to Ben's parched lips.

"Steady" she chided in a voice filled with emotions. To see him move at all was both wondrous and concerning. One part of her wanted to pick him up and dance around the room in joy, the other wanted her to punch his lights back out again for worrying her so. As she settled for wrapping him in her arms hot tears rolled down her cheeks an sobs wracked her body.

"Cath?" he croaked, confused as ever by her strange behaviour. She just slapped him on his good arm and pushed him back into the bed.

"Shut up and rest!" she ordered, "we need you to get better right now, Jacques needs us."

"Jacques!" Ben croaked in alarm, trying to sit back up. She wasn't having any of it. He was shoved forcefully back into the pallet.

"No!" she told him. "Get better then ride to the rescue."

"Go now girl" ordered the crone's voice, Catherine obeyed, but only after planting a warm kiss on his forehead. Needless to say Ben was more confused by this than the slap earlier. A sudden feeling of dread washed away all that confusion, in the crone's hands was a steaming wooden bowl and he had a really bad feeling about it. "Now sonny" she began, "Time for your medicine."


End file.
